


Anywhere Else

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 22:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12375741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: My small contribution for Logic and Philosophy Week! Combeferre falls ill during the cholera outbreak in Paris, and Enjolras worries until Joly sets him at ease. Warning for a lot of sappiness.





	Anywhere Else

** March 1832.  **

“Combeferre please sit, would you?”

Enjolras puts down his book, shifting around in his chair and looking at Combeferre, who sifts through piles of papers placed haphazardly on his sitting room table—organized chaos, Combeferre insists—searching around for something. Combeferre’s hands shake, a sheen of sweat near his hairline.

“I’m fine, Enjolras, don’t worry yourself,” Combeferre says, waving off the concern. “Is it cold in here? I’m quite chilly.”

Enjolras furrows his brow, glancing over at the cheerily crackling fire. He’s already thrown off his own coat and he lit the fire mostly for Combeferre’s benefit: it’s brisk outside, but barely cold enough for a fire at all. “I’m quite warm, actually. Are you sure you’re quite well?”

“Yes,” Combeferre answers, absent-minded, still shifting papers and opening books. “Yes I think I’m fine. A small ailment perhaps, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“A small ailment?” Enjolras shuts his book for good now, drawn to the matter at hand. “You just said you were fine.”

“I’m fine,” Combeferre repeats, muttering in that way Enjolras knows he isn’t really paying attention. It’s not personal, just a sign he’s wrapped up in something else. He opens another book, a look of triumph passing across his face. “Aha! I finally found it. Stuck inside this Condorcet volume. The filing system made sense to me at the time, I imagine.”

“I’m sorry what were you looking for?” Enjolras asks, confused.

“My notes on the pamphlet you wrote with Feuilly,” Combeferre explains, as if he’d made this clear earlier. “I told him I’d give them to him tomorrow and I knew I’d set the papers down somewhere in here yesterday and just couldn’t recall where.” He sits down as Enjolras requested a moment ago, looking paler now that he’s closer and increasing Enjolras’ worry. “Now. What were you asking me?”

“I was saying I think you’re ill. You’ve said yourself doctors can be the most stubborn of the lot in admitting it. Joly excepted.”

“I’m not feeling wonderful,” Combeferre admits. “But I’m sure I’m just tired.” He quirks a single eyebrow at Enjolras, amused. “I’m not sure you should be calling me stubborn, Enjolras.”

“I am a perfectly reasonable patient when I’m ill,” Enjolras argues. “There’s no point in being foolish and lengthening my sickness by not treating it, is there?”

“You are reasonable _once_ you admit you’re ill in the first place,” Combeferre shoots back, putting a hand on his stomach. “And that can take some doing. I’ll call Joly as witness if I need to.”

Combeferre closes his eyes, swallowing back, looking distressed.

“Combeferre?”

“I do feel a bit nauseated.” Combeferre opens his eyes again. “Maybe I should lie down a while. You don’t have to stay, I’m sure you don’t want watch me sleep.”

“I’m not going anywhere if you’re ill, I…”

Enjolras’ sentence is cut off by the sound of Combeferre springing from the couch and toward the wastebasket, retching violently.

* * *

 

Enjolras usually hates it when people hover.

Right now, he can’t help himself.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Joly,” Enjolras says, apologizing to his friend. “I hope you weren’t up to anything terribly important.”

“No no, nothing really,” Joly mutters, only half paying attention as he examines Combeferre, who lays deep asleep, his skin pale and clammy. “I was just eating dinner with Bossuet and Musichetta.”

“Oh.” Enjolras wrings his hands, feeling out of sorts. “I’m sorry to disturb you then, I only…” he trails off, worry eating away at him. He didn’t usually hold a great deal of anxiety over what might happen, because he couldn’t control everything, but this is different. This is Combeferre, and with all the concerning news about what might be a full outbreak of cholera in Paris, the moment Enjolras saw his friend vomiting into the wastebasket his mind started running in uncharacteristic circles. Circles Combeferre was usually best at talking through with him.

Joly looks up at Enjolras, smiling, affection in his dark green eyes, the lamplight illuminating his freckles. “I eat dinner with Bossuet and Musichetta very often my friend, it’s quite all right.”

Enjolras nods, watching Joly continue examining Combeferre. He breathes in, trying to calm himself down as a thousand thoughts run through his mind.

What if he had cholera?

What if he…

_Stop_. Enjolras reprimands himself. _You don’t know anything, yet. He could have just eaten something spoiled._

Enjolras has spent a great deal of time thinking about how he might lose Combeferre—or any of his friends for that matter—on a barricade. He’s thought less about losing them to illness.

Sensing Enjolras’ anxiety Joly pulls back from Combeferre, reaching out for Enjolras’ hand. Enjolras clasps back, Joly’s warmth reassuring him.

“It doesn’t look like cholera to me,” Joly says. “Not nearly severe enough. I think he either ate something bad or has some other kind of small illness. Can you stay with him? He might need a bit of help.”

Enjolras nods, releasing a breath, some of the tension fading from his shoulders. “You’re sure?” he asks. “I know it can come on suddenly like this.”

“He ah…” Joly wrinkles his nose. “Doesn’t have any symptoms coming out the other end, you see. That’s usually one of the tell-tale signs. It…looks a particular way. You probably don’t want to know more.”

“No.” Enjolras shakes his head, feeling vaguely ill himself at the images this evokes. “I don’t.”

Combeferre stirs, opening his eyes and looking at Joly in bewilderment before reaching over for his spectacles.

“Well hello there!” Joly exclaims. “Seems you’re ill, my friend. Enjolras sent for me,” Joly explains, batting Combeferre’s hand away when he tries moving out from under the bedcovers. “He said you were a bit stubborn about admitting you were ill. I’m surprised at you, medically minded as you are.” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

Combeferre blushes, looking embarrassed, his brown hair damp from sweat. The sleep breaking a fever, Enjolras supposed.

“I was being a bit stubborn,” Combeferre admits, looking apologetically over at Enjolras. “Thank you for coming, Joly. What do you suspect it is?” Combeferre puts a hand over his stomach, blanching. “I feel a bit better now, though I’m not sure how long that will last.”

“You might have eaten something spoiled,” Joly tells him. “Or you have a small illness. It will wear itself out in a day or two I think.” Joly pats Combeferre’s hand. “I’m leaving you a tonic for the nausea and Enjolras is going to stay with you. Sleep, all right? I’m sure you’d rather be doing anything else, but the doctor needs to follow _this_ doctor’s orders, all right?”

Combeferre agrees and both he and Enjolras bid Joly farewell, listening for the sound of the door shutting behind their friend.

“You didn’t have to send for Joly, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, sitting up in bed but leaving the covers over his legs. “Sorry you went to the trouble.”

“Oh no, it’s all right,” Enjolras answers, too quick. He ceases his hovering, making to sit down in the chair next to the bed before Combeferre scoots over, indicating Enjolras should sit next to him. Enjolras complies, the mattress dipping as he sits down.

“If I feel the urge to retch again, I promise I’ll do it in the other direction,” Combeferre promises, half a smirk on his face. “Wouldn’t want to ruin that cravat you’ve got on, I remember Courfeyrac gave it to you and I wouldn’t hear the end of it if I ruined it.”

Enjolras laughs a bit weakly, feeling foolish now over fearing Combeferre had cholera. He read the paper too much, perhaps, heard the rumors spreading around that maybe the water supply in some neighborhoods had been polluted on purpose. He didn’t believe that piece, but he did know that the poorer in Paris were far more likely to catch the disease because clean water was less easy to come by, and more of the poor were dying. But the illness didn’t discriminate: others caught it as well, and Combeferre had done work in the hospital with cholera patients already.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre asks, drawing out the name and furrowing his brow. “Were you worried I had cholera?”

“A bit?” Enjolras concedes, wincing. “I was being dramatic I suppose but with it going around I simply…”

Combeferre catches Enjolras’ hand where it fidgets atop the covers, his skin less alarmingly warm than before. “You don’t have to be sorry for worrying, I’m sorry for having worried you. This will pass soon, I think. Thank you for staying.”

Enjolras lets go of Combeferre’s hand, shifting and crossing his legs so Combeferre can rest his head in his lap. They sit in the quiet for a few minutes, Enjolras gently brushing Combeferre’s sweaty hair out of his face. Combeferre breathes in and out, content as his eyes flutter closed, though Enjolras can tell he’s not asleep. Enjolras doesn’t think anyone’s ever understood him so easily and as thoroughly as Combeferre does. Not even his own parents. Nearly from the moment they met—fresh-faced and eighteen and new to Paris, holding dreams of a Republic in their hands, and very different tactics in mind to achieve it—Combeferre understood him, often without words, though they certainly shared an abundance of those as well. Combeferre had been ill before in their friendship, but with the constant news of the cholera epidemic, and with Enjolras’ certainty that a barricade even might be in the very near future, he thinks this illness must have struck him differently than the others.

“I would have called Joly too.” Combeferre breaks through the silence, reaching up again for Enjolras’ hand, his voice a whisper. “If you’d gotten ill today.”

Enjolras presses a light kiss to Combeferre’s sweaty knuckles. “Sleep, all right? I’ll be here.”

“Are you certain?” Combeferre asks, a yawn marring his words. “I don’t want to…”

“Shhh,” Enjolras says, cutting him off, moving over and helping Combeferre settle. He doesn’t leave the bed, taking the book he was reading earlier and sitting in on his lap, stretched out next to Combeferre. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”


End file.
